


a casket built for two

by serendipitys



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Post Asylum AU, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Song fic, Suicidal Thoughts, Tags to be added, Unstable!Waylon, Walrider!Miles - Freeform, kind of a different take on the walrider tho idk it's more of a ghost
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-14 01:24:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10525974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serendipitys/pseuds/serendipitys
Summary: would it be so bad if i stayed?





	1. i've been ghosting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon Park thinks that his life couldn't get any worse.
> 
> That's when he meets the man who he's involuntarily killed, Miles Upshur, in a cold, rainy night. But not in the way he was expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hihi! I wrote this entire thing impulsively so the updates are sporadic loool. Much like BYWAWW , since my ADHD just won't let me have an update schedule. Shitty excuse , I know , but hey.
> 
> It's a Post-Asylum verse aka what happened after the MMS. Miles is sort of a ghost idk but like the Walrider so my take on the Walrider is different from canon. Waylon is still fucked up from the trauma.
> 
> This is written in a second POV bc that's what I use on my roleplays. It's easier for me to write that way honestly and express the feelings of the characters. I thought I'd give it a go on fanfiction writing too.
> 
> There is little to no romance here. This will be a short story. _Before_ is still my main priority though.
> 
> This is heavily inspired by the song ' Ghosting ' by Mother Mother. Please give it a listen!

You fucked up.

There are no other words to describe what you've done. That is, quite frankly, the only and most eloquent way to put what you've done in a frank statement. 

_You. Fucked. Up._

And you happen to know that you did. That's why you sit here on this seafoam colored cushion seat as you twiddle your fingers, blue-green eyes anxiously watching the two digits play with one another as the image of the performance seems to tremble. Your eyes are trembling.  _Your entire being's trembling._ It's like the entire experience was the worst earthquake you've witnessed that's left and buried a permanent aftershock beneath your skin. Now that you've realized that the shaking grows worse, fingers twiddling faster now and sweat's protruding out of your holes. Goosebumps crawl and bite your sheath and suddenly everything feels so dark and it's like there's a million pair of eyes staring at you and tongues licking their lips and dangerous cuspids now bear ready to devour you just like that one cannibal in that room, _god_ , not him-- It suddenly feels so hot. Like the machine he's shoved you in and-

"  _Mr.Park._ "

The voice is quiet, soft and gentle. But it is enough to shatter the barriers between you and your own thoughts.

You look up.

There is, once again, worry swimming in the brown eyes of your psychiatrist at your reaction. You realize you're no longer in  _that_ damned place and that you're here. You're back here. Back in reality where you wanted, where monsters no longer wander. ( _but god does that feel like a lie because you feel like anyone's ready to pounce you and pin you to the table again just like the groom!_ ) Gulp. Flash a shitty ass attempted smile at her to signal that you're back and are somewhat okay. You were not one for verbal interactions and she knows that, your feeble endeavors at physical gestures are what she's used to now.

She returns the smile. Or at least tries to, because it's a  _hopeless_ one that soon dies to a straight line. " As reluctant as I am to say this," Her tone's far from enthusiastic or anywhere near those lines. You know whatever she's going to say next is far from good but  _god_ do you have that pathetic cling in your chest hoping that whatever your thinking right now is incorrect. " But your performance for improvement has been very ...  _Poor._  I know it's hard, but you could at least try. It's for your own good. "

Soon enough, your  _own_ smile evaporates into a frown. You try to say something in reply in the form of words, but it's like you still have that noose wrapped around your neck because your throat's tightening and tightening and  _tightening_ ; threatening to choke you and just  _kill_ you on the spot if you dare to say anything since you're going to  _fuck it all up_ again if you even do the smallest thing such as speak. You don't risk it. You nod in response, try not to let those stupid tears well in your eyes.

" I do hope you're taking your meds, however. " Ah, yes. You do take your meds, that's not a lie. Albeit you must admit sometimes you take advantage of those pills, try to choke them all down and  _suffocate_ yourself with them just so you can end it all right here and right now. But you don't. Even after all of  _that_ , you're still afraid of death, and  _god_ : you've come to the conclusion that you're the most pathetic excuse for a human being.

The self-hatred never stops now, doesn't it?

You once again nod. Don't say anything else, you don't have to. You don't need to tell her anything more, it's the same story over and over again anyway. Sleepless nights. Reoccurring nightmares. Unecessary flinching. Shit getting worse, this and that.

Your session inevitably ends with nothing leaving your lips.

A lethargic phantom accompanies you as you exit. You're going to walk home now. You don't feel the need to drive nor even use your car in general, the small apartment that you live in is at least 5 blocks away and manageable to walk to anyway. You need to work out all of that fat after all, or so you think. You used to have a little chubby stomach and figure before, but now you think that you're growing more...Lanky. Weaker.  _Paler_ , as if you could get anymore paler. Definitely doesn't suit you considering your height.

You hate going home. You hate returning to that shitty ass room that smells of nothing but unwashed clothes and microwaved lunches. You don't have anyone to return home to unlike before. Even with that fucked up job, there was still some sort of mirth in your life since you'd come home to kisses from your  _beautiful_ wife and your two little boys running over to hug you. They'd be sweaty and smelly despite all the playtime they've spent in the backyard but it's not like you mind because they're your kids. But on  _that_ particular night the moment you get home and try to poorly explain what happened, it's been nothing but arguments between you and the lady who you love and  _still_ love and your sweet little boys crying in the background, not knowing why their mommy and daddy are fighting.

Not long till she finally brought out the papers.  _Divorce papers._ Not long until they've left, just like your sanity and hope for happiness.

Your motivation to live, too.

A sigh as you tuck your hands in the cold pockets of your blue jacket. That  _phantom_ you speak of still lingers in your back, wrapping it's claws around your neck and repeating the mantra of negativity with it's dried lips next to your ear that just drains the humanity in you. But you're used to it. Used to the voices, to the nightmares, to the pain and angst.

This is your penance, after all.

It's sad that you can't turn back time and rewrite those lines.

All of the sudden, the phantom feels like it's real. Not a metaphorical creature, but a  _physical_ one.

It feels like a cold, slimy mist dragging it's phangles up to your neck and clawing it's marks on it. You flinch almost violently, turning around to see if there's anyone there.

There is no one.

You're shaking now. No, it's not the usual shaking, but a strong,  _anxious_ tremble made out of fear. You feel like it could kill you, whatever that is, but another part of you is saying  _please, go ahead! Just choke me already! Let me die, see if I care!_

But as always, you're still afraid of kissing death. So you hope to whatever's up there with the clouds that it's just your mind creating these things.

 

* * *

 

 

Here you are. You're home.

It seems like you've left the TV on that K-Drama you've been watching.  _Shit._ That's fun,  _more bills! Yay!_

There's a lot of paper scattered around your room, too. It's so messy and you used to hate messy but now you can't even afford to care or pick it up. Read it, even. It's all the same thing anyway, letters and notes from different interviewers who want to interview you about the  _Mount Massive Slaughter_ and what it's like to be a ' hero '. You can't be a hero. Superman doesn't  _fuck_ things up.

It's almost offending to you, the way that they say you have their deepest sympathies about the hell you've gone through. But you know the moment they say that they'll jump on those questions and post it online for the world to see. Know that their sympathy and pity are all falsified for the sake of money and  _fame._ Not that you're unaware of it nor were you not expecting it, but it's simply  _laughable_ how they think you can be  _that_ dumb. 

There's new mail left on your doorstep but you kick it away to the side. You don't need to read that, you're not obliged to.

You pick up the remote from your moldy carpet and throw it somewhere near the table adjacent to your dirty couches. The goldfish that's living in the small fishbowl you've impulsively bought 2 months ago ( since you considered that you were  _lonely_ and needed a '  _friend_ ' ) is nearly hit but not like it'd do any damage to the pet inside it. I mean, what damage can you do to a  _dead_ fish?  Funny how you forgot to buy fish food on the trip, though. You've promised to throw it in the toilet and flush it but not today. The smell reeking from it does not bother you, much like everything else.

You kick off your shoes and leave them wherever they wish to go. It is late and you want to sleep though you  _know_ you can't because insomnia's gotten the best of you. Been happening for at least 4 days now, today being the 5th day. You enter the bedroom nonetheless, throwing yourself on the sheets.

It seems that the moment you've entered home rain already starts to pour because it's raining damn  _hard_ outside. Thunder's even there. But that's far from good because rain always returns that creepy vibe you've gotten from the asylum. 

_Oh god, please Waylon, no more. Stop thinking of that damned place, it's not healthy._

The sky roars once and flashes lightning causing everything from your window to grow completely white. You jolt upwards as a violent reaction, heartbeat's pace increasing.

One of those nights. Again,  _nothing new._

It flashes again but not everything is completely white this time. You don't know if it's because you've rarely cleaned your glasses or because you're imagining things again but you  _swear_ you saw a tall, lanky figure in front of your window. You sit up in surprise this time, backing ever so slightly.

_The fuck was that?_

You swear you're imagining things.

But it seems like you're not as the thunder clashes once again and the room gets colder.

"  _Hey._ "

An unfamiliar-familiar voice from the back of you. You yelp meekly in surprise, swiveling your head to the back of your view and see an  _ungodly_ sight.

There you see a man about 6'0" covered in black smoke and mist. He looks like he's dripping with ebony  _slime_ at that and staining your floor with it. He's close to an emaciated figure but not enough, chest is covered with a white shirt and bloodied brown jacket. Speaking of which, there are at least 8 holes on his chest: as if he was shot multiple times. It's almost a miracle to see someone  _paler_ than you because he's nothing but pure white, grayish actually. There are veins visible on his face and hands. Left hand's ring finger missing, right hand missing the index. His eyes are completely dyed black with white circles that remind you of an angel's halo.

You do not know this man.

" Oh, shit, you can see me now?  _Fuck._ " He says, and his voice is gravely and deep and somewhat...  _Demonic._ The fumes that protrude from him look like angel wings that have been torn. He's laughing in his own self-satisfaction, finding your reaction humorous maybe. It feels offending but you're too scared to be offended. " Man. 've been here for like,  _five_ days now and you only see me now? Jeez louise. And I'd thought you'd see better with those glasses. "

The sound that escapes your throat is so pathetic he'd probably laugh at it again. " W- _Who..._ "

He cuts you off in an instant, ghoulish eyes shimmering in amusement. " Oh, fuck off, Park. You know  _exactly_ who I am. "

Your throat tightens at it's maximum capacity. Now you  _cannot_ speak and it feels like you've wet yourself like a three-year-old.

The smile on his face is malevolent, teeth look like they're ready to sink into your skin and chomp all of your organs off. " Gah, don't give me that fuckin' look. 'Course I know your name, I mean, that's what  _everyone_ calls you includin' the news. " He does a little gesture to emphasize his words, add a little  _dramatic effect_ to them. "  _Waylon Arthur Park!_ Savior of Mount Massive and exposing  _Murkoff_ for how horrible and shitty they truly are. Round of applause, Ladies and Gentlemen! Heroes  _do_ exist and here he is! "

The tears feel like they're ready to spill any moment now. You frown and so do your brows, knees now held tightly against your chest along with the blanket. (  _as if it could protect you_ ) " I-I .. You... " You can't even form a proper sentence with every bone in your body trembling like a damn leaf. " You're... _You're not real..!_ "

Unamused, he rolls his eyes. " Nah bitch, I'm  _totally_ real. One-oh-one percent real, even. " He argues, clicking his tongue. " But, y'know, I dunno if I can  _exactly_ agree with all of those articles, 'bout you bein' a hero an' all. I don't know if heroes can be  _murderers_ at the same time. And  _thieves_ while you're at it. "

Your eyes widen in fright. Is this him? Could  _this_ possibly be him? Could he be the man you've virtually  _killed_ with your actions and impulsive, foolish decisions? Could this be...

" M-Miles... " You guess in a form of a stutter. The journalist, of course.  _How could you forget?_

He smiles in satisfaction, snapping his fingers. " Gotcha! "

 _But he's dead._ Or at least you think he is, that's what the news article said. That's what the couple you saw in the graveyard cry about as they stare at the headstone. The eight holes that protrude with blood indicate that he's been  _shot_ so he must be dead. He  _should_ be dead! Is this a mere figment of your imagination or mind just to fuck you up further? Or perhaps he was a ghost that's haunting you from now on despite the grudge he holds against you? You're leaning on the latter, honestly.

" B-But... You're- You're  _dead!_ " You say with a panicky tone. " A-Aren't you... _?_ "

He has a stoic expression now as if the answer you've stated was completely  _idiotic_ and the correct one was oh so  _obvious.  " Ugh._ You know, I wish I was. I was happy with  _dying_ or at least escaping that damned place. " His gaze now turns to you, two empty, soulless eyes flooding with venom as they bore into you. " But thanks to  _you_ I'm not. I'm still alive, trapped with this  _fucking_ shitty, fucked up and  _redundant_ experiment clawing onto my body. I'm sufferin', Way, and it's horrible. But  _you're_ at fault for this. Same goes with my poor, poor fingers. "

Guilt overruns you like a train. There's a gigantic lump forming in your throat and tears welling up your eyes.  _Right._ As if the pain on yourself wasn't enough, you make  _another_ being suffer with no reason at all. You've dragged a complete stranger with you for your selfish little acts. Just because you wanted to play  _hero. As if you can, you idiot._

" And y'know, honeesstllyy, You  _should_ be dead, too. " He's got one finger pointing at you at this point, and suddenly there's a long, slimy, thick tendril bulging from his back  and approaching over to your direction. It clamps your neck in an instant and  _tightens_ around the damn thing, no longer a metaphorical statement. It's real this time. The thing brings you closer to the dead man walking till you're both inches away from each other, till you can feel his cold,  _dead_ breath fan over your face.

" Unfair to let  _me_ be half dead and  _you_ live. " The man says this with such toxin, teeth gritting to emphasize his anger as his fist tightens it's grip and so does the tendril around your neck. You begin to choke, begin to see black dots appear in your vision.  _This is it._ This is your final penance. Your final payment for every fuck up you've done.

" You fucked up bad, Way. And  _fuck ups_ don't deserve to be alive. " Saccharine coats his tone as he says this. But to your surprise, he lets go and you fall to the floor with a loud  _THUD!_ and skull colliding against the cold tiles. " But hey hey, since  _I'm_ not dead too and sufferin' in this body, it'd be more fun to watch you ... Suffer. Just like I am. You're so pathetic in this state, it's almost laughable, look at you! Basically showerless. Jobless.  _Wifeless._ Is that even a word? See if I fuckin' care.

Thing is, you're so  _miserable_ like this, it's better than being dead. " There's mockery in his voice as he laughs, eyes boring into your figure that's laying helplessly on the floor as you regain your breath. There are tears forming in your eyes as you sit up, trembling. " As they say, dying's easy but living's  _harder._ "

He must have noticed your sobbing because he crouches and uses his cold,  _dead_ fingers to squeeze your chin and lift it up so your gazes can intersect. Your sobbing's muffled thus because of this, and your eyes meet his empty ones, so now you can notice the little cracks he has on his features. It's like he's falling apart and he  _is._

" Aw, are you  _crying,_ little baby? " He taunts, shit-eating grin on his face as he chuckles. Like the ' _baby_ ' you are, you cry harder in fright and realization on  _how_ fucked up your life has become and the remorse you feel because you've fucked up this man's life, too. " That's right. Fucking cry, you pathetic ass bitch. You deserve the pain anyway, aren't you used to it yet? God. You're like,  _older_ than me but you're worse. Can't even pick yourself up. "

He throws you back to the ground as he levitates upwards. He scoffs, glaring.

" God. Stop acting like you deserve my pity  _or_ mercy. You brought this on yourself. " He said, and  _god_ was he right. " It's nice meetin' ya, Parky. But ya know, I got better shit to do. So I guess I'll see ya tomorrow, I'll be here all night! "

And in another flash of the rain, he's gone.

You're still crying and trembling even after he's left. Your arms are wobbly as you try to regain the strength to carry yourself to bed, but he's right.

You can't pick yourself up.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. ghost in your house ghost in your arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol i plotted the entire thing out and it's most likely filled with narrative rather than dialogue i guess. it's more of a stress relief kind of thing when i don't want to do tumblr drafts or before.

Morning.

The day is hazy and blurred. And you mean that literally, you've got your glasses thrown onto the side and at a foot away from you.

You've slept on the floor. You groan miserably, hand reaching out to the spectacles and placing them over your eyes before rolling over to stare at your ceiling. It's another cold, lonesome day to  _mourn_ in the morning. Might as well as call it a  _mourning._

Your back hurts. Your spine hurts, side hurts, neck hurts;  _everything_ hurts but you've accustomed to the pain so you're numb to it now. Blink a few times to readjust your vision before standing up and stretching your back, yawning loudly. You feel like the protagonist in an old, grayscale movie where the main character was  _definitely_ and absolutely hopeless with no sense of life in their life. It takes you a moment to realize that wait, that  _is_ you.

Head over to the nightstand and tap on your phone twice. It is Wednesday, nine fifty-seven. There is no scheduled appointment today for your checkups. Consider it a free day, but no day's  _free_ for you because you consider yourself trapped in your own nightmares.

You turn over to the mirror that's collecting dust at the side of your room. You take a moment to 'appreciate' your _bed hair_  that's almost akin to a bird's nest, with poorly dyed blond hair standing on its edges. It's grown a little longer too, natural black strands starting to grow. You feel the need to cut it but you recall those days where you've tried and had Lisa laughing at you for being absolute _shit_  at grooming your hair yourself.

You've gone hideously thin too. Your 'chubby cheeks' are now gone and replaced by cheekbones that didn't look too healthy, if you lift your shirt up you can already see your _ribs_  being hugged too tightly by your skin. You're disgustingly pale that doesn't go well with the myriad of freckles that's dusted on your skin. Your eyes look so bloodshot and the irises look like it's losing its color. There are eyebags hanging beneath them, and all in all your entire appearance screams _why are you even trying? You should be dead by now._

It'd be more fun to watch yourself decay into an actual living skeleton, though: so why not do _that?_

Your feet idly drags you to the bathroom that's standing next to your bedroom. You undress lazily then enter the shower, let the cold, rushing water hit your body and hopefully wake your veins up. Wake your soul up while it's at that. You feel so dead inside that not even the water akin to an esquimal state can wake you up at this point.

After you finish ( you do not remember if you've washed your hair or not, but up to this point it doesn't really matter ) you exit and head back to your room. Still half-awake at this point, you throw your dresser's door open to choose in the  _variety_ of clothes you have. Note that  _variety_ is italicized for sarcasm.

Even with  _that_ situation, you stare into the mess of a dresser beheld before you, contemplating on  _what you should wear today._ Funny how you still wonder because you doubt that you're going outside  _anyway_.

" Oh wow, really didn't expect for ya t' be an expert in  _fashion_ , Park. "

The voice that pops out of  _nowhere_ causes you to wince in surprise. Although a scream doesn't rip itself out from your throat.

You turn to look behind you and find the one and only _Miles Upshur_  looking from behind, scrutinizing your choice of clothes, the same as you are. The similar aloof expression is dangling on his face just as last night, he's still very much _bored_  of you and your mundane lifestyle it seems.

Realization strikes you. You are in your cold, unclean bedroom alone with another man. Embarrassment and shame instantly washes over you and paints your face a deep shade of red as you cover your body, down _there_ especially. ( You didn't consider the towel since you _are_  alone after all, but boy have you forgotten that you're no longer _that_  with this ghost accompanying you. )

Miles notices your abrupt reaction and scoffs, rolling his eyes. " Oh, don't be such a prude, Park. " He sneered, grimacing. " It's not like there's _anything_  to be embarrassed about. I mean, y'er not special, it's like you don't even _have_  one anyway considering it's size. "

 _Great. A ' your dick's small, dude ' joke._  You are now entirely assured by the fact that you _are_  older than this man is despite his maturity and humor. But then again, that's not much of a good thing to know, now that you're mindful of the fact that this man's so young and yet you've ruined his life for him. The guilt stings you like a scorpion and causes you to flinch involuntarily.

Nevertheless, you grunt in response and return to what you were originally doing. Now that _he's_  watching you suddenly care and are suddenly concious about your choices in clothing, afraid that he might whip out a harsh insult about your poor taste in fashion whenever you try something. You do not know why this bothers you so much but it just does.

You don't realize that you're zoning out because a loud, irritated' _tsk_  ' ensues from the brunet as he pushes you to the side before running over to your dresser for you. " God, I knew you were quiet but I didn't think you'd be _that_  quiet. " He seethed, grabbing a navy blue knitted sweater with those small holes at the end for your fingers and throws it to the side ( or more specifically, the _ground_ ) . A pair of boxers if you must and good ol' black jeans. You quietly walk over to where he's thrown it, bend over and pick the clothes up. Put them on silently, meekly.

" Seriously, are you older than me or is everyone in the media lying at this point? " He groans, looking over at you with a displeased look. " You're like a baby that needs to be spoonfed at _everything._  Has the entire experience fucked you up _that_  bad? Oh, grow up. "

You wince. You wince at the lack of empathy and the harshness of his words. He's been through the same shit, right? He's supposed to ... _Emphasize_  with you. Or at least know that after all of that, it wasn't easy, or maybe he's the type of person who thinks everyone has his luxuries and perspective when it came to shit like this. Supposed to have the same strength as he does or else they're considered _weak._  

" Look, I know the shit's bad but look at yourself. You're alive. You got out _safe._  So selfish enough to even steal my jeep while you're at it. " He snaps, breaking you away from your thoughts. It's not the ghastly appearance that makes you fear him, but how you're so _transparent_  to him and how he's able to push the right buttons to make you feel this way. " You're _literally_  the only being that came out alive after all of that shitstake. You got what you wanted, right? Wanted to expose that hell of a place for its macabre acts? Aren't you fuckin' satisfied of that yet? You just didn't think of the consequences of your actions. Grow. _Up._  "

He's right. You _can't_  be satisfied. You feel like the world revolves around you thus after all of that mess you expect praise and love and respect and not _all_  of these things that were bound to come. You'd think Lisa would be proud but she was far from that. You'd think Jeremy would end up in jail but you let him get _murdered._  You'd think the Groom would finally get his therapy and bride but you _killed_  the poor, poor man because you looked after your own fucking safety before anyone else's. You promised to save them but in the end, you didn't even save _yourself._

There come the prickling tears again. They start to shimmer from your life-worn eyes and run down your cheeks as you put on the sweater. No one ever confronted you and gave you such a harsh reality after the slaughter, thinking you were some fragile being who didn't _deserve_  to have a confrontation because you're ' broken ' and ' a  hero ' and whatnot and that you believed but you push away the fact that you've fucked up bad. Yet alas, came the Walrider-possessed man to bring you back to your feet.

 You feel the cold, black mist approach you. It's ominous state is close to your face, Miles' bony fingers grabbing your chin as he raises it up towards his own gaze. " Are you fucking _crying_  again? " He spits out, and this time his voice is _far_  from amused. It's more of a tone that spells ' _god, aren't you pathetic '_ and really, he's right. You _are_  pathetic. The sudden realization only triggers more tears, and by that he's already pent up by your crybaby shit because he practically throws your face away from his.

" To think that you're literally so fucking _fragile..._  It's such an offense for you come out alive while I fuckin' don't. It's so _unfair._  " He seethes, black eyes and white irises aflame with anger. " I _strived_  to get out of there, Waylon. Even with my mental health and physical slowly deteriorating, I _tried_  so fucking hard. I made sure I was still _glued_  together even if my other pieces had fallen, I tried so _hard_  to get out. To be _free._  I could die or escape that place, the fuck do I care, but I get _neither._  I'm still alive, but I'm not free, I'm a prisoner to this hell of a nightmare. "

His gaze now bores to you, halos burning more than ever. " But _you?_  You fucking let yourself get wrecked and crushed into pieces. You didn't even bother to pick them up. You're too weak for that, too... _Breakable._  The opposite of what I fucking was. You cry and _cry_  even in the aftershock as if you're still not used to the pain. Yet what the fuck happened? You're _alive._  You're _free._  It's so fucking hilarious and I absolutely _hate_ and _envy_  that you are. Yet you take things for granted... _God._  "

He's pinned each and every needle of guilt in your skin. You _feel_  it, clawing into your flesh and drilling itself into your sinew. You hate it. You hate it. _You hate it, you hate it,_  but god is he right. _God_  are you fucking undeserving of the air you breathe right now. Even all the heartbreak, the trauma, the _abandonment_ , and _isolation_ wasn't enough as payment. You deserved _death._  You deserve to be _erased._

You're still crying. It's pathetic that you do, but you can't stop. " M-Miles... " You find yourself muttering, uttering his word as if you two had _something._  Acquaintances? Friends? Lovers? No. You barely knew this guy. You only knew him by name and that he was a freelance journalist. 

And that he was the guy you fucking _killed._

" What? What are you going to say? _Sorry?_ I'm _fucking_  sorry? " His words are laced with venom and they're poisoning you as his spit hits your face. " Oh, how cliche you are, _Way._  And the ever so classic _I didn't mean it?_ Sure you fucking didn't. You just went ahead and sent me as if nothing was ever going to happen. You expect a freakin' _medal_  for what you did? HA! No, darling, you're getting _consequences_  and here they are. "

Your lip's wobbly. You sniff and snob, wipe your mucus with the too long sleeve. You can't even find the words to argue, why should you? He's _right._  He's wrong for shoving all of these facts up your face without knowing your story, but he's _right_  and there's nothing you can do about it.

Next thing you know, there's a handkerchief thrown _squarely_  on your face. You look up and see that the thrower is no other than Miles himself. " ... _Ugh._  You're literally two years old. I don't even know why I'm telling you this, it's useless. It's into one ear and it exits to the other, I bet. "

He's out of the room after that. He's shut the door as he exits, but this time he walks rather than levitate. He was, assumingly, sick of even talking to you. You're unresponsive and all you do is _cry_  when they face harsh reality upon you.

_Can't blame him._

After you've groomed ( _lies._ you simply brushed your hair and tried to wipe all that snot and tears on your face ) yourself, you leave the room and hear the pots and pans clank from your small kitchen. He's there apparently, scavenging with your shit in the cupboards. You find yourself not giving a fuck, but you still watch him and give odd gazes from afar.

He grabs a cereal you've bought online since you can't even go outside and face people at malls. It's a box of _Lucky Charms_  and unknowingly, it had a stupid toy inside that the box clearly labels, but you were too tired to even notice that.

" Holy shit, Park. " He laughs, and you brace yourself from the mock he's going to throw at you. " You really _are_  two, _HAHA._  You still collect these stupid toys? _For what? Oh,_ jeez, that's fucking _gold!_ A _Finding Dory_  figurine to what, _cheer ya up? HAHAHA!_ Jesus _Christ!_ "

You find yourself thinking that he was a hypocrite about the childishness since it wasn't even a funny thing to begin with. You walk over to him without murmuring a word in response, but you _do_  grab the box from his hands along with a bowl found below your cupboard.

" Oh, not going to laugh with me? Jeez, aren't you a fuckin' KJ. " He says, a mixture of _peeved_  and _sad._  Somewhere between those lines. You take note of the gigantic _mood flip_  on how a while ago he acts like you were a criminal who's murdered all his pets right in front of him, and now he's acting as if you're two long lost best friends who were separated and now brought back together.

Still. You don't reply. You don't find the need to. You grab a gallon of milk in the fridge that's about to _spoil_  if you don't use it and then pour it all over your cereal. Of course, the spoon's an obvious part and you've brought it over to your bowl. You pull the old, dust-collecting wooden chair and plop yourself on it rather lazily. You look at Miles, who's only staring at you and your actions and looking at you as if you were being impolite to a guest.

" What? " You spit out involuntarily. " Do you want to eat too? "

He rolls his eyes, doing a raspberry with his lips. " Nah. Ghosts don't eat,y'know. Anyways, I'm going. It's boring, t' watch ya and your lonely life. I'll see you...  _Some day._ Bye-bye. "

He leaves, of course.

You finish your cereal in an odd moment of silence with your thoughts. Didn't ghosts need to have a moment of peace for them to ascend or something? Maybe you should give Miles that so he can leave you.

_Yeah.._

 


	3. ghosting your dreams

Looking for someone's information isn't necessarily  _stalking_ now, right?

Although highly unsure, you search up  _Miles Upshur_ on the web, anyway. He's 22 years old, born on the 19th of September. A Freelance Journalist despite getting kicked out of his old company because  _apparently,_ he's dived a little bit  _too_ deep in whatever he was researching about. If you think about it, it was sort of  _irony_ or just plain stupid for whoever he was working for. 

For smaller details, he was apparently gay. Relationship status was left  _It's complicated_ , which was often used as a poor excuse on not wanting to talk about whatever was going on in his love life. Or whatever. What do  _you_ care? He's Filipino. _Pure_ Filipino while you're at it. 

You scroll down further and see some of his pictures when he was still...  _Alive._ He  _is_ still alive though, right? Sort of. Kinda.  _Not really._ More like, half-dead, half-alive, however the reader wants to portray him. Compared to today, he was a little more dark skinned opposed to his pale flesh. It was because of the lack of  _blood_ , probably or him converting into godhood. Or some other scientific explanation, you weren't sure. He's got this shiteating grin that's slightly resembling a smirk, no genuine smiles flashed on his photos. His fashion sense was mostly made up of jackets, shirts and dark colors. You're starting to think if he has the right to judge your  _own_ fashion sense.

One thing you take note of, though, is how he's mostly...  _Alone._ Not really, he's got two photos with a taller man and a girl who shares his height, but other than that almost...  _Nothing._ Just him and his sad smiles. And a dog who's a Corgi, if you're not  _that_ bad at guessing dog breeds. The more recent photos, you realize his eyebags get darker and darker. His smiles get smaller, hair gets messier, he just evolves more and more into a  _mess._

_And then you lead him to this type of lifestyle. Way to go,Park._

In a selfie of his, you notice the background to be the apartment you're living in. Suppose he lives in the same place too? God, that's coincidental. And luck. Then again, maybe not really since you moved in here impulsively after  _volunteering_ to leave the apartment after your divorce with Lisa. You can still remember your boys' faces, begging you not to leave, begging you stay, crying '  _papa, please, stay! we love you! we love you!_ '

But you leave. Silently. With tears welling in your eyes, bottom lip a prisoner between your teeth.

This is not the time to reminisce. You get up and close your laptop shut, practically throwing it onto the side. You head down to the desk in the first floor and ask if there's anyone named  _Miles Upshur_ living here, and lucky for you the brunette right there says  _yes._ On the thirteenth floor, a floor higher than your room, room six-two-six. The building's a bit old so the floor are kind of crusty and wobbly as you walk your way there. Through the stairs, that is, and even if it was tiring there was just  _something_ at the back of your head telling you that maybe he'll leave you alone when you get something there.

Then again, there's this macabre part at the back of your head telling you to just  _die._ Since, y'know, guy wants you dead anyway, and ghosts won't ascend into heaven or whatsoever until their mission on earth's done. Maybe that will sate him. Glass bones crushed, blood spewing on ground, skull completely shattered. Your corpse. He hates you anyway. And everyone else probably does. But they'll act like they care.

They  _always_ do when you're fucking gone. You don't just see people openly say  _oh goodie, someone killed theirself, what do I care?_

It's a matter of false sympathy for the sake of fitting in society.

Or something like that.

Like always, you drive these thoughts away. Negativity isn't going to help you now, might as well flip it the bird with a giant  _fuck you_. Or a small fuck you, since he decibel of your voice is barely above a whisper. You reach the room alas and there's some soda spewing out underneath the door, ants crawling onto the sweetened liquid. You meekly try to avoid this and you attempt to pry the door open, and much to your surprise it isn't locked; it's open. ( What  _else_ could it fucking be? What a rhetorical statement. )

Nimbly, you peek inside the room. There's a rat on the television, and he's judging you for being so ' untidy '.

The room's scattered with unwashed laundry but there's an air freshener placed on the small coffee table, making the place smell a  _horrid_ mixture of lavender and rotten pizza. Other than that, coffee stains litter the wall and floor, there's basically mold and lizard eggs growing on them. It looks like the entire place's fucked by a hurricane and thrashed it completely, leaving no survivors. Your nose stenches up in disgust at the putrid smell, but endure it nonetheless. You're not leaving with nothing in your hands.

You walk inside the room to investigate it further. There's a stuffed pig laying on the couch, you notice this now, and quite frankly you never expected this man to be the type of guy who'd  _still_ sleep with stuffed animals. But hey, guess the saying  _don't judge a book by it's cover_ still makes it's appearance up to this day.

He's got a lot of pictures placed on his cabinet, too. You're a nosy person, that's a flaw Lisa had pointed out many times, so you approach this to examine them closely. They're pictures of him and... Another man. He has soft, green eyes and a very muscular build. Pretty tall too, a foot taller than Miles actually. ( And you're assuming he's 7'0" despite Miles being 6'0"... ) He has a bandage placed over his nose but he's got a really soft smile. His hair's dyed pale blond. He's got his hand placed around Miles' hip, so you're assuming that this man is his boyfriend. Fiance. Something like that.

You take note that this guy's the owner of the piggy stuff toy on the couch, since he's holding them in one picture. You do not know why, but the face seemed oddly familiar... It's triggering something in you about the asylum, but you can't exactly picture  _why..._

" What the  _fuck_ are you doing here? "

You jolt in surprise, not exactly expecting to hear a voice. Your hand accidentally knocks down a picture, sending it to the ground with a loud  _CRASH_ as it shatters into pieces. You look up to the voice's origin, and see...

_Miles._

He's here. God,  _he's fucking here._ But he looks different. He isn't coated in black swarm, eyes aren't dyed midnight black with those halos, his skin's still sickly pale in comparison to his old one but the thing is, he doesn't look like a monster. He looks...

_Human._

Why the  _fuck?_

A response tries to escape your lips but fails miserably. Miles, and you are  _still_ very much appalled by the fact that he's human like, ambles over to you with a stoic expression. He's a foot close to you now and you don't know why but you feel like he's going to  _hit_ you but all he does is bend over and pick the broken picture frame up, completely ignoring the glass shards that might wound him.

" Miles, I- " You stutter. " I'm so sor- "

" This was an important picture. " He says, tone bland and flat. He doesn't even mind the prickling pain of some shards ( Maybe that was because of the bandages he's just put on ), doesn't even acknowledge Waylon's apology. He only looks at the image, which was a picture of him, his boyfriend and that stupid little Corgi they own. " This... This was... "

You keep your mouth shut, not exactly knowing what to say.

Miles' head shoots upwards, glare burning in your direction.

" Do you fucking see this, Park? " He snaps, showing the image to the other. " Do you  _fucking_  see this? "

You do. You  _do_ fucking see but you don't know what to say. Like a dog stricken, you pathetically nod, not knowing what else to do.

There's a fake amused laugh that leaves his lips. A little ' tsk ' before he moves on, then a  _crash_ as he throws the picture to the ground, sending more shards to fly to his barefooted feet. You flinch in surprise, cringing at the image of tiny, sharp shards piercing into skin.

" You don't know... You don't know how fucking hard it was, Waylon. " He says, and now he's looking down, completely avoiding your gaze. " You don't know how  _difficul_ _t_ it was for me. "

Your breath hitches.

" Do you know what it's like to lose someone you  _fucking_ love? A man you devote your life to? " He continues sharply. " Hah, no you don't. Lisa's there all your fucking life. She always was. You're so lucky you never lost her, yet you were  _stupid_ enough to make foolish decisions that tore you and her apart. "

 _Ouch._ It's true. You didn't need to sign that stupid, stupid contract, she even went against it but you were arrogant anyway, saying  _it's okay, we'll be okay_ even though it fucking wasn't. You say you'll escape that hellhole of an asylum just to see her again when working for Murkoff was already the beginning of prying you two apart.

" I lost him, Way. " His voice's strained. It's like he's going to cry and guilt's swallowing you up completely. " I fucking lost him. For three years. He went to the military and he promised that he'll return. I knew he will, I trusted him, he wasn't going to  _die,_ I knew he wasn't. But then suddenly he was nowhere to be found, he didn't die, they didn't fucking say he died; they'd let me  _know_ if he did. "

" And for year I swear to God there was never a time my depression worsened. I wanted to fucking die, Way, but I kept moving on anyway. Second year and I was miserable, knowing that I missed him so,  _so_ much. He wasn't my remedy; it doesn't work that way, I know, but he gives me a temporary state of happiness. I loved him. He loved me. But then they just took him away. "

" And god,  _god..._ " His fists clench, tears welling up in his eyes now. " Year three and I enter that fucking bizzare shithole. I fucking go inside there to see a mutilated man with a cheese grated fucked ugly ass face that grabbed me by the fucking throat as he called me by a nick only one man calls me. Then he throws me, making me unconscious. I pick up files only to see a name I've been wanting to call for so,  _so_ long. "

He turns over to the pictures. "  _...Chris._ Christopher James E. Walker. That's the fucking name typed on the document. They've fucked him up so,  _so_ much and god have I never expected to recall such memories in a place that's so... Disgusting. So inhumane and fucking  _vile._ I wanted to save him, Way, I really wanted to even if it seemed so fucking impossible. But when I tried,  _god_ when I fucking tried that... That  _hell_ of a monster drags the love of my life up and shoves him in the fucking vent. Then his flesh and blood scatters all over my face-- Do you  _know_ how that feels? Do you fucking  _know_ how traumatizing it is to have a man you're supposed to fucking marry die in front of you in such a horrid way?! And then you'd have the thing that-- That fucking  _MURDERED_ him consume your fucking being? The bitch responsible for his death is  _IN ME, WAYLON!_ I should have never experienced that! I could have moved on! I could have never seen that and I would probably be in a better fucking state  _IF IT WASN'T FOR YOUR FUCKING ASS!_ "

He's gripping you by the shoulders as he yells this, shaking you as he cries these words in an incoherent sob. You're crying too because god fuck,  _he's right,_ he's always been  right, and you only realize now how  _worse_ your fucking actions were and how dire the consequences is. You've fucked up so many lives. Your own. Gluskin's. Walker's, apparently. Even Blaire's. But god, most of all, you've ruined  _his_ life. A man who's always been going through so much and yet you do this.

" Miles, I- " You know he doesn't like it when you say sorry but you find yourself say it again. By accident.

" Don't-- Don't give me that fucking word, Park. I don't want  _none_ of it. " He hissed, arm wiping the tears off his face. " You know what  _else_ I absolutely despise about you? You were.. You were perfectly fine. She was there.  _She was fucking there and she wasn't going anywhere._ Your boys were there too but what did you do? You threw it all away. You could have prevented it but you  _fucking_ did it anyway. I wanted  _my_ love back, Waylon, but I couldn't have him back, no matter how hard I've prayed and tried. But you--  _You..._ You had them. They were  _there_  for you and God do I question on why you deserve such luck and happiness when in the end, you crush them and just.. Throw it away. Take it for fucking granted. You're so stupid and I envy how you're still in a better fucking state in comparison to me. "

He dissolves into a messy, series of sobs as he buries his hands in his face. You've never seen him in such a vulnerable, broken state before. You didn't even think he could render into one, you'd assume he'd stay in his sassy, cocky persona for the rest of eternity.  Not knowing what to do but wanting to comfort him, you reach out your hand, waning to wipe those tears away but--

He smacks your hand away. " Get out. "

You cower your hand back to your chest.

" I said get  _fucking_ out. " He repeats, voice quivering. " I don't want to see your face now. Or ever again. Die for me, won't you? That'll make me happy. "

Recoiling, you take a few steps away from him. You walk towards the door, throw one glance back at the brunet and see that he hasn't moved at all. He's still there, tears spilling and breathing raggedly. You exit, close the door gently, and leave all the questions in your mind unanswered and perhaps they'll be buried there answered forever.

And maybe you'll get buried soon, too.

God.

You really do need to die.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry. really sorry for really slow updates. god it must be annoying if i apologize frequently but it's a fucking impulse of mine.
> 
> the chris/miles rs is inspired by another fic that i'll edit here soon, so kudos to them!


	4. i'd make you oh so afraid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the titles of these fics r literally just ghosting lyrics what else do i put yall  
> anyway it came out a fw days ago but wasnt outlast ii lit  
> val is trans i dont care what anyon says. BYE

Guilt.

Pain.

Death.

How the cars run through the road in a blinding speed look so nice. Wouldn't it be a pleasure to join them? 

The fact that you think about this makes you bite your lip. You shut the curtains, head splayed against the clothed window.  _What's happening to you?_ Your depression and anxiety only increase as you breathe, not the other way around. 

Days like these were easily cured by Lisa wrapping her arms around your waist, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. Then there goes the bedroom, that is if your kids don't pop up out of nowhere and ask you what's wrong. Your family was your main remedy, your source of happiness and light; and now that they've literally vanished out of your sight, you feel so lost wandering in pure darkness.

Your fingers clench the dusty, unwashed cloth of your musky green curtains. The ( thousandth ) tear slips out of your eye, teeth biting lower lip hard enough to make it bleed.

You miss them.

God, you fucking miss them so much. You can't put it in words on how much you fucking  _miss_ them. You miss the times where you'd just stay in the living room playing stupid video games such as Mario Kart, and you'd battle your kids which would end up in you winning and they'd throw popcorn at you. Then you'd let yourself lose intentionally, just so they can get that sweet taste of triumph. Just so you can see their smile, hear their laugh, find that bucktooth your kid had so  _adorable_ as you'd laugh along and so would Lisa.

The grip grows tighter. The curtain nearly falls.

Miles was right. You did everything to tear them apart from you. For a prodigy and genius, you were pretty stupid sometimes,  _aren't you?_

You were about to break down but your door fly open, echoing a loud  _thump_ and crash for the soda cans you've left near the door.  In surprise, your head turns back only to see Miles with a stoic expression on his face.

_Fuck._

" Miles- " You were  _supposed_ to greet, but the brunet cuts you off with a glare. You zip your lips. You realize that you're crying and he hates it when you cry, or maybe he loves it because it gives him an opportunity to bully and tease you. One of those, but you're thinking the latter.

A loud, annoyed ' tsk ' ensues from him. He approaches you closer now, black sleeve of his sweater lapping on your face and wiping the tears away. " You're so ugly when you cry. Stop it. You cry like a three-year-old. " He scolds, voice flat. " Will I ever come here without having to witness you sob like a baboon? "

You don't know why, but this, to you, was a brief, small act of comfort, and others bestowing you such things  _always_  made you want to cry again. So instead of ceasing the tears, they just come again along with a pathetic whimper from your lips. 

He backs from ( what seems ) to be disgust and your instincts immediately react. " S-Sorry, sorry... " You say, sniveling pathetically as you dab those tears away. " I-I just... "

" Such a fucking baby. " He spat out and you recoil. He walks over behind you, snatching the hood of your outfit before throwing it over your head. The cloth falls over to your eyes causing your vision to be blocked. You question this sudden gesture but choose not to be vocal about it. You remove the hoodie and see Miles on the couch now, legs sprawled idly like he owns the place. He's brought a cigar and is lightening it up.

" No, put it back on. " He says, sticking the thing between his teeth. " You're cuter with it. "

Your heart thumps at the compliment and you find yourself putting it back on, but not too down so you can see.  _Fuck! Why? Do you care? Oh my god..._

When you do, though, he doesn't say anything. He just lays there on your couch, head facing the ceiling as he puffs out gray fumes. You find yourself walking over to him, plopping yourself gently on the couch but not too close to him, just for safety measures and y'know, personal bubbles, all that jazz. You have so many questions going through your mind, like:  _why are you here? Why do you look human? Why do you just barge into my life? Why do you hate me so mu-_

" Y'know, Park. " He suddenly speaks up, as if psychic and able to read your thoughts. " It wouldn't hurt to fuckin' ask me. Stop staring at me like that. "

You've got your arms placed in front of you, back slightly slouched to the front and you are  _indeed_ staring at the man next to you. You blink, shaking your head and feel a red hue arise to your cheeks.  _Fuck, fuck._ Why are you embarrassed about the smallest things?

You were about to speak, but as he removes the cigarette from his mouth and places it between his fingers ( Funny enough, the _pink_ _y_ and ring finger of his right hand, despite losing the pointer one ), he speaks for you.

" Ah, I know what you're thinking. " He started. " Why the  _fuck_ are you human? "

Your lips sew themselves shut. It's appalling how he gets you so quickly or were you  _that_ obvious? 

He scans your reaction for confirmation. Knowing that he's guessed correctly, he sits up from his position and crushes the cigarette on the table. With a quick  _snap_ of his fingers, the black, misty ambiance of his returns and the muscles of his eyes immediately turn black, irises shifting to those halo-like circles you've said.

Well,  _that_ surely answers it, doesn't it?

" It's like and on and off machine. Something like that. " He explains, and suddenly the aura drops and he returns to his human-like self. " But I can't always manually put it back on and vice versa. The Walrider has a mind of its own, I guess. But it follows me ... Sometimes. Kind of useless, though. "

You want to ask  _why_ but he instantly answers that again.

" ...I can't go outside. Well, I can, and I do when I need groceries or I'm just fuckin' bored, something like that, but I'd have to put on a hood and a mask or whatever to hide my identity. " He analyzes further, sighing deeply. " People think I'm dead. Or at least those who know who I am, and others who've seen my face...Somewhere. I don't know. People are trying to find the Walrider, too, knowing it's out there and it needs to be diminished as  _soon_ as possible, fearing that it might be a danger to others. "

He slumps back to the couch, throwing his feet on the table. " If they take it away, I'll die. Miles Upshur would be gone for real, then. Haha. Wouldn't it be funny if I had a funeral  _again?_ That's so fucking funny. I'm double dead meat. I'm basically a dead boy walking, y'know, Veronica Sawyer. "

You're baffled. Confused.

" But don't you wanna  _die_ already? " 

Regret burns at the tip of your tongue as those words leave.

Your hands fly to your mouth, surprised that you even had the nerve to ask that. Miles turns over to you with a neutral expression on his face, not a single hint of offense found on it.

There's a self-amused laugh as he turns over to face at _anywhere_  but you. " I mean, fuck, yeah I do. " He agrees. " But there's something stopping me. "

You cock your head.

" ... _What?_ "

Hands are now tucked into the pockets of his jeans.

" ... _You._  "

A thump.

" ...Kinda. I dunno. Call it revenge or grave anger, something like that, but I just wanna see how you go. Maybe see how long you can last in such a pathetic state. " Knowing his true intentions, you feel kind of _discouraged_  now. " Or I dunno. It's hard, living with this state, but not _everyone_  gets to convert into some kind of godhood. It's too much of a luxury to just throw away. But I'll manage. I choose my death now, and I ain't wanna die yet with you _living._  "

You cower with those words. He wasn't... Exactly the kindest person now, isn't he?

Suddenly, a devious smirk pops up on his face. " And...Honestly... "

The Walrider emerges suddenly, coating his eyes black and arising that dewy, dark aura of his. A tendril pops from his back, causing you to flinch in both disgust and surprise but before you can ever react it's grabbing you by the throat like it did the first time.

" I get to do _this._  " He says, smirking like the goddamn demon that he claims to be. The clammy, cold thing grasps your throat so _tightly_  you can already feel your vision darkening by the second. You breathe for air, struggling to pry the thing away from your neck but Miles wouldn't budge. He lifts you higher, tightens the grip, and from your vision you peer downwards and see that the asshole isn't even looking at you.

" I can hurt you _physically_  and emotionally _any fucking_  time I want because I can and I _want_  to.  " It's a sadistic tone that laces his voice as he says this. He's laughing as he does it, _of course_ , he is. Just when you feel like you're going to pass out, he lets go and drops you to the couch, causing you to wheeze and cough and inhale sweet, _sweet_  air as much as possible. He returns to his human state,  standing up from his seat and leaving you be.

" Bye bye, Wayway. I'll see you tomorrow. "


End file.
